


Trust Issues

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blindfolds, Handcuffs, M/M, Sherlock's bossy voice, Smut, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-17
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock devises a trust exercise. All John has to do is follow instructions; if there's anyone who knows how to give instructions, it's Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Issues

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks to misanthropyray and Ivy Blossom for beta reading and general handholding. Any remaining errors are 100% my own and usually committed over loud protests.

Right, John tells himself resolutely. This won't be so bad. All he has to do is follow instructions. If there's anyone who knows how to give instructions, it's Sherlock.

* * *

 _Trust exercise_ , Sherlock had called it.

Sherlock's eyes had been bright with excitement as he hurried John downstairs and into the waiting taxi. The thought of the excitement in his face was enough to hold John steady while Sherlock drew the mask down over his eyes, tied a dark cloth over it to hold it in place and block out any residual light. Only then had he leaned forward to tell the driver it was time to leave. John swayed alarmingly on the seat when the vehicle began to move, finding it surprisingly difficult to maintain his equilibrium without the use of his sight.

Sherlock didn't speak during the interminable ride but he set a hand on John's thigh, steadying him, and that small point of contact was enough that John was able to keep his own hands curled together in his lap as he'd been told.

When the cab stopped John waited for instructions that didn't come; instead, Sherlock just withdrew his hand, the spot on John's thigh abruptly cool where there had been warm contact. John started at the sound of the door closing, felt a brief flare of panic at the momentary fear that Sherlock might leave him there, though the rational part of his brain knew that all he had to do was reach up and remove the blindfold. His fingers itched with the impulse; he curled his hands more tightly together in his lap instead.

Then Sherlock pulled John's door open (of course, of _course_ he did) and grasped John's wrist, guided him to standing. Outside the taxi it was quiet, the ground hard and even underfoot; John had the distinct impression that they were already inside somewhere, though he couldn't visualise the space.

Sherlock still didn't speak, just maintained his hold on John's wrist and pulled him forward. They were moving at what was no doubt his normal pace but it felt far too fast to John, fighting his innate hesitation at stepping forward blindly into the darkness. Still, despite his apprehension, the ground remained even and unobstructed in front of him until Sherlock stopped moving.

"Stop." Sherlock's voice was clipped, authoritative, and John could do nothing but comply, immediately coming to stillness in his accustomed posture: head bowed, hands clasped behind him. He felt Sherlock's stupidly long fingers grasp him by the shoulders and turn him slightly, urge him a half-dozen paces backward.

"Good," he told John. "Don't move."

John did his best not to sway when Sherlock pulled away; he was back almost immediately, two cool fingers pressing against the underside of John's chin to tip his head up.

"You're doing very well so far," Sherlock told him, his voice low and dark with promise. "I'm going to put something in your ear now. Hold still." He could feel the heat of Sherlock's body at his side, the stirring of the air as Sherlock circled him.

"Very nice indeed, John." John could almost see, in his mind's eye, the faint quiver of a smile on Sherlock's lips. "Wait here. We're going to play a game."

John scarcely had time to process the words-- _wait here? for what? what sort of game?_ \--before Sherlock was gone.

* * *

Which leaves John standing, blind and alone, in the middle of an unfamiliar space, telling himself that he can handle whatever Sherlock has planned.

He shifts impatiently; it feels as though he's been standing there for a long time. His shoulders are beginning to ache, and try as he might to contain it, he can feel the faint flutter of nerves rising in the pit of his stomach. He closes his eyes against the urge to squint and strain into the black dark behind the blindfold.

" _John._ " Sherlock's voice in his ear makes him jump; he'd all but forgotten about the earpiece. He swallows a small noise of surprise; Sherlock still hasn't released him from the silence he'd ordered before leaving the flat. "Nod if you can hear me." John complies, dipping his chin slightly. Wherever he's gone, Sherlock can see him; it's unexpectedly reassuring and it takes discipline not twist his head in a pointless attempt to locate him.

"Excellent. Turn to your left, slowly, and move forward until I tell you to stop." John hesitates and Sherlock's tone goes sharp. " _Now,_ John. If there's something with which you need concern yourself, rest assured that I will tell you."

John squares his shoulder and shuffles his feet until he's facing the right direction--"There, good, now forward"--resolutely determined not to let his posture reveal how unnerved he feels.

He stops abruptly when Sherlock's voice commands him to, only realising belatedly that he should have been counting his steps, or--

"John," Sherlock breaks in, sounding put-upon. "You know I loathe to repeat myself, so I will tell you one last time before I am forced to resort to other methods. All you have to do is follow my instructions. Whatever you need to know, I. Will. Tell you." Somehow, in Sherlock's voice, it sounds as much like a threat as it does a promise. John swallows, suppressing a shiver.

"Now." Sherlock's voice is steady in his ear, deep, forceful. "Remove your shirt, and do not drop it."

The order unlocks something in John's chest, stirs something dark and complicated at the base of his spine. He hisses in a breath as he reaches up with suddenly-stiff fingers to begin working the buttons of his shirt, opening it from the top down, conscious of the increased flow of air against his skin. He fumbles slightly with the buttons; waits for a reproach that doesn't come. When his shirt is hanging loose at his waist he undoes the buttons of his cuffs, pulls the sleeves down his arms, until he's holding the shirt loosely in his fist.

"Extend your right arm and take a step in that direction," Sherlock commands him, and when John complies his fingertips just barely make contact with cold metal. "It's a bank of lockers. Keep your arm out and walk forward until you find the one standing open. Fold your shirt neatly and place it inside." John takes three steps forward, four, conscious of the ridges and seams of the lockers sliding under his fingertips before his fingers skip abruptly into empty air. He gropes, brings his palm against the floor of the locker. Folds the shirt as neatly as he can and sets it inside, apprehension pricking at the back of his neck.

Sherlock's tone, when he speaks again, is deliberately neutral; John can hear it even through the slight distortion of the earpiece. "Now the rest of your clothes."

John's stomach drops sickeningly and he almost protests. It's not that he objects, precisely, it's just that there's still too much he doesn't know; the bare skin of his chest already feels almost unbearably exposed, and he doesn't know where he is, he's on display and he can't _see_ \--

" _John._ " Sherlock's voice carries an undisguised threat and it sends something warm and liquid pouring down John's spine. He brings his fingers to his belt, begins to unfasten the buckle before thinking better of it and toeing off his shoes instead. He squats to pick them up, reeling slightly in the darkness as he stands again to place them inside the locker. Belt, jeans, socks, the motions getting easier as he acclimates to the blind movement of his own limbs. He hesitates only fractionally before pulling off his underwear as well, piling everything as neatly together as he can without being able to see.

"Close it," Sherlock orders, and John gropes blindly for the door of the locker, slams it shut. He realises only belatedly what it means: in the dark, he'll never find the same locker again. The thought steals the air from his lungs.

The concrete floor is cold against the soles of his feet, but that isn't what's making him shiver.

"Turn around." John turns too quickly, has to throw out an arm to catch himself against the lockers as he tips sideways. "No need to rush," Sherlock admonishes him, his voice tinged with amusement. "Walk forward from where you are; you'll encounter a table. Waist-height."

John can feel his composure beginning to slip as he moves away from the bank of lockers, acutely aware of losing their protection, both as means of orientating himself and because he feels more and more naked with each step he puts between himself and his clothes. It's further away than he expects and he has a brief moment of panicked disorientation. He stumbles briefly as his bare toes catch on the cement floor, but doesn't stop moving because Sherlock hasn't told him to. He gropes his way through the featureless space until he touches the smooth surface of the table-top.

"If you follow the table, you'll find a chair. You may sit."

John can feel his eyes straining into the darkness as he inches his way around the table, trying not to imagine how foolish he must look. The chair is on wheels; a dangerous proposition, especially with the way his knees seem to buckle beneath him as he folds himself into it. He realises he doesn't even know from what direction he's just come, and the thought makes his breath catch in his chest, makes him feel something very akin to panic. His fingers itch to pull the blindfold off. He's bloody naked; _Christ_ , what has he gotten himself into?

"I'm still here." Sherlock isn't trying to be reassuring, necessarily; John can read it in his tone, but John finds the assertion anchoring nonetheless. He can almost picture Sherlock, impeccably dressed in shirt and trousers, watching John stumble and strain in his private darkness. He ought to find it humiliating, but the heated flush he can feel spreading up his throat at the thought tells him that his body, at least, has other ideas.

"You're performing admirably so far, although I am afraid it's going to get a bit more difficult after this." He pauses for the words to sink in. John focuses on the sound of them as much as their meaning. He can already feel the panic ebbing, replaced by a warm glow in his chest, the tidal pull of obedience Sherlock's voice always has over him. _Performing admirably_ ; even that small scrap of praise makes him want to grin.

"Now. Listen very carefully to what I'm going to tell you. I need you to turn until you're facing the table, then bring your feet up to rest on it. _Careful_ ," Sherlock says, just as John feels his foot bump against something that goes rolling away across the table top. He freezes, almost afraid to breathe, as he listens to it hit the floor and continue rolling.

"Oh dear," Sherlock says in mock concern. There's a curl of amusement in his voice. "That, I'm afraid, was the lubricant. I rather think you're going to want to find it."

 _Oh, god_. John freezes, unsure of what to do next. Sherlock's right, of course, and he can't imagine how Sherlock expects him to find anything like this, much less something as small as a bottle in a space so unmanageably large.

Then again, he really doesn't want to think about what it would mean if he _didn't_ find it.

"Use your ears, John. What did you hear? Where did it go?"

It takes John a moment to process the words, translate them into the action expected of him. _Floor_ , he thinks, and uses the edge of the table as a guide to lower himself to the ground before he can change his mind. The earpiece means he only really has one ear with which to hear his immediate surroundings, making it hard for him to pinpoint direction from sound alone. He has no way of knowing whether Sherlock intends that to be part of the challenge, doesn't realise, or simply doesn't care.

Either way, John has his orders.

He picks a direction at random and begins to crawl cautiously forward, sweeping searching arcs before him with his hands, trying not to think about how exposed the position leaves him. The floor is hard and mostly-clean beneath him but still he can feel bits of grit pressing against the hard edges of his kneecaps, into his palms. He imagines them growing red, scuffed and dirty and _marked_ , evidence of what Sherlock made him do. Just the thought sends a hot flush of shame up his throat, his cock beginning to stir between his thighs.

He finds the leg of the table and hesitates; turn with it, or venture out into open space? Sherlock is silent in his ear so John just grits his teeth and turns, unwilling to leave his single point of orientation.

"Your _other_ right, John." Sherlock's mocking him but he's also helping, and at this point John will take what he can get; he turns away from the table and edges forward into the darkness. He's lost all sense of proportion, feels as though he's been at this for hours, days; as though there's no end to the featureless darkness surrounding him.

He nearly misses what he's looking for; somehow he fails to touch the bottle with his hand, feels a jolt of surprise when he bumps his knee against it. He grabs it with an overwhelming sense of relief, clutching it tightly in a hand that feels stiff from contact with the cold floor.

"Well done," Sherlock says, sounding pleased. "Now, where were we?" He pauses as though he genuinely can't remember and John shifts uncomfortably; now that he no longer has a goal to focus on he's acutely aware of the ache spreading outward from his knees, beginning to radiate down his arm from the strain on his shoulder. Sherlock pitches his voice low, drawing out the individual syllables until John can practically feel the vibrations of the words in his ear. "Ah yes. Back to the chair, if you please. You may walk." John pushes himself unsteadily to standing, grounds the soles of his feet against the cold floor. "To your right," Sherlock says impatiently when he doesn't move.

John's sure that isn't right; surely it must be behind him. He's lost all sense of direction and scale and suddenly there's something heavy in his chest, a feeling that's edging uncomfortably toward panic. He can feel his toes curling against the hard floor, digging in as though preparing to run. He can't do this, he has to--

" _Stop_." Sherlock's voice is sharp in his ear and he freezes, leans into the sound. "Stop thinking, just listen to me. Turn right. Good... good. Now forward. Fourteen paces. Count them out loud."

Fourteen paces. There's something immeasurably reassuring in the finite nature of the number, in the physicality of his own throat forming the words, and John steps forward without hesitation. "One."

Sherlock hums approvingly into the earpiece; John nods his thanks and takes another deliberate step. "Two."

Sherlock's voice in his ear is so low it's practically a purr, drawing him forward. "Good, _very_ good."

His fingertips brush the tabletop midway through the last step; he can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "Precisely as promised. Now do sit down so we can get on with things."

John feels his way around the table to the chair, sits carefully. Sherlock chuckles softly when he sets the bottle well away from the edge; John can feel an answering grin playing along his own lips.

"Now, John," Sherlock says in a voice that's gone low and dark again. "I'm going to ask you to sit back again, but before you do that, reach your left arm straight forward as far as you can. Slowly."

John leans forward until his abdomen is just pressing into the edge of the table, stretches his fingertips out cautiously and-- there. Something dense and solid, made of hard silicone that catches fractionally when he slides his fingertips against it. He swallows against the renewed flutter in his stomach; his suspicions are confirmed when he picks it up, brings it closer to himself.

They've only used plugs a few times before and this one feels unfamiliar. John squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold and concentrates on the sensations at his fingertips, trying to get a mental picture of the thing he's going to-- _Christ_. It feels impossibly large, with an abrupt flare at the base that makes his chest tighten in anticipation, makes his cock stir against his thigh.

"Feet on the table. _Carefully_. I have no interest in a repeat performance. If you lose the bottle again, you'll just have to do without."

Oh, _fuck_.

He hitches his feet up cautiously, slides his hips lower in the chair. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, his mouth suddenly dry; he touches his tongue to his lip.

"Don't be stupid, John." And John does feel stupid because of course, of course; Sherlock would never be so careless with what's his. "Prepare yourself."

Suddenly, the room is entirely devoid of oxygen.

Prepare himself. Right.

 _Right_.

John swallows.

Yes, okay. He can do that. John slicks up his left hand, carefully setting the bottle a safe distance away. He's sure he must be flushed, the air cool against the heat of his skin. He takes a deep breath as he slides his hand around and runs a finger around his own entrance, trying to will himself to relax. He gasps as the tip of his finger breaches his initial resistance.

"Good, John. _More_."

John swallows his groan and pushes deeper, twisting his spine in the chair to get a better angle. He can't imagine how absurd he must look, naked and blindfolded and fingering himself like some sort of-- he can't bring himself to finish the sentence even in the privacy of his own mind. That thought leads to imagining Sherlock watching him, the long clean lines of him, the pale eyes, the full force of his impossible attention focused on John, on John doing _this_.

And god help him he must surely be cracked because _that_ image makes his cock twitch, a harsh contraction of muscle he can feel all the way through to where he's touching himself from the inside. He draws his lower lip between his teeth to stop himself from crying out as he slides his finger in and out, waits for Sherlock's command before easing a second one through the slowly-loosening muscle.

John is finding it increasingly difficult to hold still as the sensation builds. Even with that voice in his ear he feels unbearably exposed, impossibly alone; the darkness around him is dizzying, disorientating. Two fingers, pressure against his prostate when Sherlock tells him to and he wants to call out, establish a connection on his own terms, but Sherlock hasn't given him permission for that.

Three fingers and John can hear Sherlock's breath coming nearly as ragged as his own.

"Christ, John, you're incredible. You don't know what it does to me to see you like this. _Gorgeous_. You should see yourself." Sherlock's voice slides down his spine, a dark ribbon of sound that pools outward from his sacrum, fills him up with need. John has to clench his right hand hard into the tensed muscle of his thigh to avoid touching himself; he doesn't have permission for that, either. It's not his own touch he wants. He twists his fingers, presses them deeper; imagines they're Sherlock's, long and pale. It makes his next exhale shake out of his chest. He can feel the muscles, low in his belly, beginning to tighten and release in anticipation; swallows a groan.

The tension in his body crests and ebbs and he fights to control his increasingly-rapid breathing until finally, finally, Sherlock speaks again. "There, John. _Enough_." Sherlock voice is scarcely above a whisper, hitting John's brain just as he's beginning to shudder through a wave of tension radiating outward from the base of his throat. "You're ready."

John withdraws his fingers; meets the resultant emptiness with something between reluctance and relief. He fumbles hazily for the plug, slicks it up, presses it carefully to himself, its touch hard and unyielding, and he knows immediately that he can't, he _can't_ be quiet for this. Before he can stop himself there's a noise almost like a whine bubbling up his throat.

"Yes, you may speak," Sherlock says, the words clipped and authoritative but with a breathless undercurrent to his tone. "Tell me what you need."

 _Please,_ John thinks desperately as he begins to press the tip of the plug inside, easing the muscle wider. _Your hand, your mouth; don't leave me alone in this._ "Just-- talk to me," he manages, his own voice low and cracked and breathless.

Sherlock seems all too ready to comply. John can't really parse the individual words over the other sensations forcing themselves on him, but he clings to the sound of Sherlock's voice, the low rumble that steadies him, urges him on, more, _more_ \--

His muscle stretches wide around the flared base of the plug and it's too much, he _can't_ , but Sherlock's still speaking to him so he doesn't stop. Then it's in and he's gripping both his thighs, panting, cock hard and aching, tiny pinpricks of light dancing behind the blindfold. He feels overheated, faintly damp with sweat, already wrung out.

There's a pause that lasts just a fraction too long to be comfortable, then Sherlock's voice in his ear again, controlled, steady and sure:

"Well done, John. Now we can really get started."

For just a moment John allows himself to hope that this means Sherlock is about to materialise out of the darkness, that they're approaching the end John already wants so badly, but he isn't really surprised when, rather than Sherlock's touch, what he gets is another command.

At Sherlock's instruction John presses himself to standing, turns, and sets off once again into the darkness ahead of him, correcting his trajectory when Sherlock tells him he's drifting. Each step shifts the plug inside him, its movement sending hot sparks of sensation racing along his spine. More than once he has to stop in his tracks to catch his breath while bright flashes burst before his eyes. His cock is a heated, insistent ache in the darkness ahead of him, his breath a harsh rasping sound in his throat. He feels like he's swimming in Sherlock's voice--dark, fluid, murmuring encouragements--and when John finally makes contact with something solid again--another wall, its plaster cool and smooth against his sweat-flushed skin--it's a shock. He leans his shoulder against it gratefully.

"Not done yet, John. Keep your hand on the wall, follow it forward. Your _left_ hand," Sherlock tells him. "Slight incline to the floor here."

The first step brings John's bare foot in contact with a new surface, no longer concrete but tile. It takes him several stumbling steps to get a feel for the slope, to stop catching his toes against the floor; it would be easier if not for the plug, if not for the distracting feeling of fullness and the way it keeps bumping him _right there_ , its touch not nearly everything he wants but more than enough to turn his knees to water. He can feel the blood thrumming along beneath his skin, making it feel raw.

He follows Sherlock's voice for what seems like an eternity, turning when he's told, stepping over low obstacles, climbing gradually.

"Stop." John's so attuned to Sherlock's voice that he can hear the current of anticipation running through it; he feels an answering flutter in his own chest at the sound. "There's a closed door in front of you. Open it, enter, and close it again behind you."

John fumbles for the doorknob--not on the left as he expected but on the right, its cheap metal coating shockingly cold to the touch--and enters. The air on the other side is colder, though not uncomfortably so, and swinging the door shut behind him leaves him once again unmoored.

"Now." Sherlock's voice is sharp and precise. "I need you to follow my directions exactly. From your current position, take two steps to the left." The specificity of the instructions brings John's mind abruptly back to the precariousness of his predicament and he does as he's told, takes two neat strides. Sherlock hums approval and goes on. "Four steps to your left-- good. Now turn clockwise. More. Farther. Enough. One step in that direction, five more to your right." Sherlock is gaining momentum, the directions coming faster and faster until John has no time to think, can only blindly obey, each step increasing the friction against his sensitised prostate that blankets his thoughts with a warm haze. It feels as though he's moving in circles, his mind conjuring nameless hazards that must be avoided, that seem to press in against him from all sides.

Finally, the stream of orders stops and John stands swaying, slightly dizzy.

"Reach your left arm straight in front of you, and take one more step in that direction."

John complies, his fingertips just brushing something shockingly cold, a thin band of metal. _Oh, Christ_.

Sherlock gives him a moment for the realisation to sink in before speaking again, voice pitched low and deceptively soft. "Take them." John wraps his fingers around the thin chain, relieved to discover that the handcuffs come away from the wall without resistance, that he isn't to be tethered here. "You've done remarkably well, John. So well, in fact, that I'm giving you a choice." Even through the anticipation roiling his stomach John feels a surge of pride at the praise.

When Sherlock goes on, his voice is dark with promise. "You may keep your hands in front of you, and stay silent. Or you can put them behind you, and I will allow you to speak."

John understands what's being offered him. In front left the possibility of his own touch, the ability to reach forward into the darkness; behind obviated those possibilities, but left him his voice. In front, reassurance and access to himself; behind, access to Sherlock.

It takes him no time at all to come to a decision.

He fumbles briefly but manages to link his wrists together behind his own back, sliding the hasps home securely, the touch of the metal almost painfully cold against the sensitive skin of his wrists. It's nothing to the warmth he feels when Sherlock hums his approval through the earpiece, a low, purring sound that edges on a growl. It makes him shiver, makes his cock ache and twitch with want, makes him want to squirm, grind what sensation he can get out of the thing still inside him. _Please_.

It isn't until the next order comes--"Step forward, John."--that he feels the first twinges of doubt, the frantic flutterings of panic. He's defenceless (though what defences has he ever had, really, against Sherlock?) and blind and unable, now, even to feel his way, to catch himself if he falls.

Then he remembers the bargain he's made, the one tool left to him. The name rasps its way out of his chest, up his throat. " _Sherlock_."

Sherlock's answer sounds just as breathless, just as needy, as John feels. " _God_ , John, _yes_." John's mind conjures up an image of Sherlock watching him, eyes fever-bright and intent, a flush rising up his pale throat from the open collar of his shirt, palming himself through his expensive trousers, and it's enough to propel him forward one hesitant step, his balance even more precarious with his arms trapped behind him.

John stumbles and the plug inside him shifts abruptly, sending a spark of sensation that burns its way up his spine. He hisses in a sharp breath; he can feel his fingers curled against the skin at the top of the curve of his arse, and he realises anew that he truly is trapped, that it's no longer just his obedience preventing him from reaching up to remove the blindfold, that the thing inside him is staying there until Sherlock removes it. _Fuck_.

The thought sends a hot flush of blood southward. The ground seems to ripple under him and he goes down hard, pulling reflexively at his trapped wrists. He catches himself on one knee with an impact that jars him all the way up to his throat. His torso tips forward at a dizzying angle as he fights to regain his balance, to avoid falling further, until he manages to steady himself again. Through the earpiece he can hear Sherlock breathing, rapid and shallow, his skin seeming to burn with the anticipation in that pale gaze as Sherlock waits to discover what John will do.

John really doesn't want to stop, not when he's come this far. Doesn't want to disappoint. He takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw, and presses himself carefully to standing, focusing on drawing himself close around his spine and ignoring the dizzying tilt of the darkness around him.

"Well, _ow_ ," he says with a wry twist of his mouth when he manages to get both feet solidly back on the tile again.

Sherlock lets out a relieved breath and John is sure he can actually hear him smile, though when he speaks his voice is faintly mocking. "If you're _quite_ sorted, John." There's a pause, and John nods; he's ready. "Slight turn to your right and keep moving forward." Then, with a wry twist that helps John push through his hesitation: "I can see you're rather distracted, but do try to keep your mind on the task at hand."

 _Distracted_ , yeah; that's one word it.

Sherlock keeps up a steady stream of encouragement as John keeps moving; he stumbles twice more, but doesn't fall again. He breathes; asks for rests when the sensations get to be too much; starts again, and again and again, inching forward into the darkness.

Then Sherlock directs him around a corner, and he encounters a door. On Sherlock's instruction he turns and pushes with his shoulder; as it swings open he's hit with a blast of fresh air.

Sherlock's speaking quickly again, rapid-fire, not giving John time to reconsider. John steps forward as commanded; his toes flex in shock as they come to rest on grass.

He freezes, his pulse hammering in his veins.

"The door, John." Sherlock's voice is sharp, bringing him back to himself. "Move away; it will close behind you."

All John can feel is the grass beneath the soles of his feet, the panic sitting sharp and heavy in his chest. He doesn't want to; he can't do it, naked and exposed and handcuffed with a plug up his arse and now _outside_ , Christ, what is Sherlock playing at, he can't, he _can't_ \--

"Sherlock," he hears himself say, "this is-- I mean, _what_." He's past coherency. Nearly past breathing; behind the blindfold, his vision is swimming.

"It's okay." Sherlock's voice is even and steady. "I'm here. You're okay."

John echoes numbly, almost believing it: "I'm okay."

"John. The door. Please."

It's the _please_ that does it. He nods, steps forward, focuses on the feel of his toes curling down into the grass so he doesn't have to focus on anything else. There's an abrupt shift of pressure as his shoulder slides free of the door, disrupting his balance; he starts when it slams behind him, helplessly swallowing down his anxiety.

Then he jerks and almost falls because there's a hand on his shoulder, unexpected contact from nowhere, _fuck_ , and it takes him several long, pulse-pounding seconds to realise it's Sherlock's hand, that it's Sherlock's palm on the back of his neck and Sherlock's fingers in his hair and air from Sherlock's lungs heating John's skin.

"I'm right here, John." Sherlock is whispering directly into John's ear, the one without the earpiece. It's overwhelming, Sherlock's voice and his breath and his touch all at once after so long, and all John can do is lean into it and be grateful. "You've done so well."

Sherlock has one arm wrapped across the front of John's shoulders, crowding them together, drawing John back against his chest even as he inches them both forward. John can feel the buttons of Sherlock's shirt pressing into the bare skin of his back, the buckle of his belt; can feel the bulge of Sherlock's trapped erection pressing against his sacrum, tantalisingly close to his bound wrists.

"Oh," he breathes, twisting his hands in the cuffs in an attempt to get the right angle to touch him. " _Please_ , Sherlock."

He feels the huffed exhale ruffle his hair as Sherlock smiles, but he doesn't get an answer. John decides to try a different tactic instead, twisting his head and shoulders to catch Sherlock's mouth in a kiss. Sherlock evades him effortlessly, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot just below John's ear, and John lets out a low growl of frustration even as the the touch sends a shiver of sensation across his skin.

The shiver becomes a shudder when Sherlock grazes his nails down Johns chest, across his right nipple. His hand keeps moving down and John has to fight not to strain up into it as it plays over the dip below the crest of his hip, lower, lower, and John should probably be embarrassed at the noise he's making but he can't really bring himself to care, straining against the blindfold, desperate to feel Sherlock's hand where he needs it.

"You have no idea," Sherlock is saying, "how much I've been wanting to touch you, how many times I had to hold myself back, telling myself it would be that much more worthwhile if I could wait a little longer." John groans, trying to press back against him, but Sherlock pushes him forward firmly so that he has to take several stumbling steps to maintain his balance. "Just watching," Sherlock continues, the heat of his breath searing itself into John's skin, "while you got yourself ready for me, while you got yourself hard, worked so hard to do what I wanted, because it was what I asked of you."

Sherlock's palm comes to rest against the exposed head of John's cock and John's breath shakes from his chest. "Not yet," Sherlock whispers. His hand slides down, spreading pre-ejaculate along John's length, until finally-- _finally, yes, please_ \--Sherlock's fingers wrap around and it's all John can do to obey, not to thrust into the touch. Sherlock slides his hand up and down once, twice, and on the third time it doesn't come back down, grasping lightly around the base of John's frenulum, drawing his cock up slightly toward his belly, holding it where John can feel the ghost of its heat against his abdomen.

He brings his other hand up to twine it in John's hair and steps forward. John's so focused on not thrusting into Sherlock's fist that it takes him the space of several long seconds to realise that they've stopped because another half-step would bring his chest up against a hard surface. It scratches John's forehead when Sherlock eases it forward; his addled mind identifies it, dimly, as brick.

Sherlock releases his cock and brings both hands down to grasp the blades of John's hips, pressing the length of his body flush against John's back. He presses his hips forward once in an obscene grinding motion that shifts the plug inside him and makes him see sparks, makes his cock jump where it's curved up against his belly, the underside of the head just barely brushing the harsh surface of the brick, the sensation making him shudder.

Sherlock bends close, pressing his mouth against the back of John's ear. " _Don't move_." He speaks the words precisely, enunciating the consonants, so close his lips slide across John's skin. "Wait for me."

Then everything abruptly disappears--Sherlock's hands, his mouth, his breath--and John's mind reels in the darkness. He keeps leaning against the wall only because if he doesn't he knows he'll fall. "Sherlock," he says desperately, when he can summon the breath for it, "don't do this. Please don't-- don't leave me here, not--"

"I'm still here." John's heart leaps at the sound of Sherlock's voice; sinks again when he realises it's coming through the earpiece. Behind him, distantly, he hears a thump, the sound of a door opening and closing, the clang of metal on metal. "I'm right here. I just need you to listen to me for a little while longer. I promise you it will be worth it."

John takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Right," he says. "Okay."

"Good, John. Wait right there."

John considers saying something snide in response but thinks better of it; instead, he just curls his toes down into the grass, presses his forehead and shoulder into the rough surface of the brick in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut behind the blindfold, straining for any sound that might tell him where Sherlock is or what he's doing. He can feel anticipation coiling hot and tight at the base of his spine, the light friction of the brick against the underside of his erection just enough to keep him sensitised and jumpy with arousal.

But if anyone knows how to give instructions it's Sherlock, and if anyone knows how to follow them, it's John.

 _I promise you it will be worth it_.

So John waits, and listens, dizzy with the rush of air against his skin, with the unrelenting darkness before his eyes. He feels vulnerable and exposed and alone and still there's nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

He waits.

* * *

The touch, when it comes, is a shock. Just the tip of a finger, trailing slowly down along the line of John's spine, and the only thing that keeps him from jumping at the unexpected contact is the fact that his muscles are already taut as bowstrings, quivering with tension.

"Sherlock, please," John gasps as soon as he gets his breath back, before he can stop himself.

Sherlock doesn't speak. The finger keeps moving down, down, stops just short of John's cuffed hands, then trails back up between his shoulderblades, scratching slightly with the back of his nail. John shivers and fights not to squirm, shoving his shoulders back and down, a fruitless gesture of impatience. Sherlock draws his finger up the back of John's neck, along the underside of his jaw and John tips his head slightly to give him better access, rolling his forehead across the harsh surface of the brick. He can't seem to catch his breath.

Sherlock brushes his fingertips down the side of John's neck, splays his hand wide across John's shoulder. There's a moment of anticipation in which neither of them move, scarcely even breathe, John's world full of limitless darkness and potential energy and _yes_ \--

\-- until it all comes crashing earthward again in a quick, dizzying rush of sensation as he's pulled back and turned. The only thing that keeps John from falling is the strength with which Sherlock is gripping him, fingers digging into his good shoulder, Sherlock's other hand coming out of nowhere to lock tight around John's waist; holding John upright, crushing their bodies together. John arches into the touch, pressing his cock into the fold of Sherlock's still-clothed hip. Sherlock shake out a ragged exhale.

Sherlock keeps John crushed tight to his chest as he pulls him forward, away from the wall. John follows blindly, stumbling, lost in the friction of their bodies pressed together. For the space of several dizzying heartbeats his feet lose contact with the ground; he lands with a thud that jolts up his spine. Just for a moment he thinks he's fallen; he lets out a sharp noise of surprise just as he realises that Sherlock's manoeuvred them so that he's sitting in Sherlock's lap, straddling one of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock wraps one hand around the chain of the handcuffs to keep him steady; brings the other to the back of John's neck, and John can feel the warm stirrings of Sherlock's chest as he draws him in.

" _John_." Sherlock's voice has gone low and breathless.

John opens his mouth to say something in answer but doesn't get a word out before Sherlock's mouth is on his. The joining of their mouths is too harsh to be called a kiss and John nearly pulls away, just on instinct. Sherlock tightens his grip, pulling John down hard against the top of his thigh, shifting the plug inside him ; John rocks instinctively into the sensation, opening his eyes wide behind the blindfold, his vision sparking with colour.

Sherlock's mouth softens against his and John's world is full of the wet slide of Sherlock's tongue, Sherlock's teeth. His cock aches to be touched and he can't stop himself from rocking obscenely against Sherlock's leg, the cloth of Sherlock's trousers rubbing against the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs. He tugs at his trapped hands, throat tight with a combination of desire and frustration. His fingertips itch to pull off the blindfold so he can see, to run his hands over Sherlock's chest, his face, to work open Sherlock's buttons and expose his skin.

Sherlock releases his grip on the back of John's neck and slides his hand slowly down over his collarbones, along the front of his chest.

" _Christ_ ," John hears himself gasp into Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock's fingers slip around the base of his cock, the skin there so flushed with blood that Sherlock's hand feels almost shockingly cold. Sherlock doesn't move his hand, just tightens his grip around the base of John's erection. John bucks up into it before he can stop himself.

"Stop," he manages, gasping. Beneath him, around him, Sherlock falls completely still, though John can still feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat, echoing all the way down his femoral artery. "I'm close, Sherlock, I-- not yet."

Beneath him, Sherlock relaxes fractionally, brings his head so his mouth is against the side of John's neck. "Oh, don't worry," he says, voice low and curled with amusement. "You don't think I'd make you wear _that_ "--he tips his thigh up slightly and John shivers as the plug bumps against his prostate--"and not _take advantage_." He tightens his grip at the base of John's cock and slides his lips up until he can take John's earlobe between his teeth. John gasps when he runs his tongue against the sensitive spot where the back of his earlobe joins his neck.

"Besides," Sherlock continues, his breath warm against John's ear, "you aren't going to come yet." It's both a promise and a statement of fact; John squeezes his eyes tight behind the blindfold. "I want this part to last as much as you do." He releases his grip on the handcuffs and brings that hand up to tug the earpiece from John's other ear; John hears it clatter to the ground. "So just relax and let me worry about that."

When he speaks, his voice nearly shakes into a laugh. "Haven't-- haven't led me astray yet."

John can feel the rumble of approval in Sherlock's chest. "Precisely, John."

John shivers as Sherlock mouths down along the front of John's throat until he reaches the hollow at the base of John's throat, then licks a long line up over his adam's apple to the sensitive skin on the underside of his jaw. Sherlock eases his grip on the base of John's cock and runs his hand slowly up the top of his erection, brushing his palm lightly over the exposed head; spreads the fluid gathered there down John's length. John can't stop the choked sound that bubbles up from his throat, can't help rocking against Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock makes a low, growling noise. "Perfect."

They stay like that for a long time while Sherlock plays John's body between different points of sensation, teasing his skin with his fingertips and his mouth, rocking the plug inside him so that it brushes against his prostate. Unable to see, John's whole world narrows down to feel of Sherlock's body against his, the way his own skin and nerves and blood are humming, blanketing his mind with a haze of _more_ and _please_ and _yes_ , pleasure so sharp it borders on pain, pressure that isn't enough.

At some point John must have started saying those words out loud, though he doesn't realise it until Sherlock stills and breathes _Shhhh_ against the sweat-slick skin of his chest.

"Christ, John, I want to hear you, but just-- hold still a moment." The sharp edges of Sherlock's voice have gone slightly blurry. He spreads both hands wide over John's shoulders, runs them down his arms.

It takes John several long seconds to process that he's undoing the handcuffs. When they fall heavily to the ground Sherlock grabs hold of John's forearms to draw them forward, easing him through the stiffness in his shoulders. "Okay?"

"God, yes," John says, gripping hard at Sherlock's shirt, his neck, his hair. He pulls Sherlock's mouth to his and kisses him until they're both dizzy and gasping from lack of air, bright lights sparking in the darkness before John's eyes.

John brings his hand down to press it against the heat of Sherlock's erection, still trapped by layers of fabric, and Sherlock's body jumps beneath him. " _Yes_ ," he says, bringing his mouth to John's shoulder. John shifts the heel of his hand, bites back a sharp noise of surprise as Sherlock's teeth latch onto the flesh of his shoulder.

John fumbles with Sherlock's belt, undoes his trousers with fingers that shake with anticipation. Sherlock's breath shakes from his chest when John brings his hand against the newly-exposed heat, just a layer of thin cotton separating them.

"Shoulders." Sherlock's voice has completely lost its hard centre. "How are-- can you support yourself?"

John makes a puzzled face that must be clear enough even with the blindfold because Sherlock brings both hands against his mid back. "Lean back." John complies, the world tipping dizzily in the darkness, trusting himself to the solid support of Sherlock's arms until his hands come into contact with a flat surface, what feels like a soft blanket spread over wooden slats. "Elbows," Sherlock says, and John understands; he bends his elbows and brings his forearms down, balancing some of his weight on them, wrapping his fingers around the front edge of the table.

"It's fine," John manages. "Come _on_."

Sherlock hitches one of John's legs up and over to bring John astride both his legs, then shoves his hips up off the chair, lifting John with him; pushes his trousers and pants down to his thighs, and sits heavily again. John tenses in anticipation when both Sherlock's hands leave his skin; he hears the sound of a foil packet ripping open. Sherlock's low moan when he rolls the condom over his own erection sharpens the ache in John's groin, making him twitch and pulling an answering noise from his throat.

Sherlock cups both hands under John's arse, tilting it upward. John's breath catches in his chest; when Sherlock runs one hand slowly down his perineum he arches up into the touch, his skin prickling with sweat.

John clenches his fingers around the edge of the table and tips his head back at the intensity of the stretch as Sherlock eases the plug out. The feeling of loss is acute; he has to fight his instinct to press himself down against the finger Sherlock runs along the stretched ring of muscle, but the touch disappears quickly. John hears a click he recognises as a bottle of lube, hears Sherlock's breathing go sharp-edged as he spreads it over himself.

"Please," John breathes, and Sherlock huffs out something almost like a laugh.

"Since you ask so nicely." The pace of the words is even but there's no air behind them. Sherlock cups John's arse in both hands and draws himself closer until he can feel the pressure of Sherlock's erection, hot and insistent. There's a brief moment of stretch, then the sweet slide as they come together, John's whole world narrowing down to a single point that's all heat and pressure and _oh_.

"Christ, John," Sherlock breathes, "you're--" The next word shatters in his mouth, the breath leaving his chest in a harsh exhale when John rocks his hips downward. When he speaks again it's more like a hiss. " _Yes._ "

It's not a position that gives Sherlock much leverage so it's up to John to do most of the moving, rocking his hips to grind himself down along Sherlock's cock. He can feel Sherlock's thighs clenching and releasing beneath him, feel the insistent throb of his own erection. Sherlock's fingers wrapped around it come as a surprise that makes John's muscles jump, sends sparks of heat along his spine; they both groan at the way the movement shifts them against each other.

When Sherlock begins to stroke him it's both absolutely perfect and very nearly too much. "Now, now, _please_." It won't take long, like this, anticipation already coiling tight at the base of his spine, his blood and skin singing with sensation.

Sherlock's answer rumbles out of his chest. " _Yes_ , John, now."

John arches down into Sherlock's lap and Sherlock begins saying his name, over and over, in a low breathless moan of a voice, his hand moving faster, more, _more_ \--

Then John's tipping over the edge and pulling Sherlock with him. Sherlock's thighs go rigid beneath him even as he feels the hot splash of his own release along his stomach, bright sparks of light in his vision.

They shudder together for what feels like a long time, but John hasn't even caught his breath before Sherlock disengages, grasping John's thighs in shaky hands and helping him slide back so he can lie down fully without having to support his weight. John can already feel lassitude stealing over him; he collapses gratefully onto the table, letting it support him, still floating in darkness. He feels, distantly, Sherlock dabbing at the mess on his stomach, writhes lazily when he repeats the treatment on the sensitive skin between his thighs.

"You did very well, John," Sherlock says, bending to brush a kiss against John's temple, folding the blanket up to cover him. "Keep the blindfold on; I'll be right back."

John nods, already half asleep. It's easy to wait, now, and he drifts, listening to the distant sound of a door opening and closing.

It seems like the a long time later that he feels Sherlock's hand on his shoulder again, warm and solid. The contact is jarring, bringing him sharply back to himself; he jolts upright, clutching the blanket around his waist. "Sherlock."

"Hmm?" Sherlock sounds tired. No, not tired, John amends; content.

"We-- we're outside."

"Mmm. Obviously."

John waits for the space of several long cycles of breath before he realises Sherlock isn't going to elaborate. "So shouldn't we-- I mean, is someone going to--"

John doesn't need to see him to know Sherlock's lips are twisted in a smirk. "John." _Trust me_ , he means, and the lump of tension in John's chest eases toward a comfortable warmth. There's a pause, then the thud of something soft and heavy landing in his lap. "Get dressed."

John sighs, reaching up to undo the blindfold; jerks back in surprise when he feels Sherlock's hands clamp down on his wrists.

"Sherlock."

"You don't need it off to get dressed." His tone is sharp with impatience. "We may want to use this place again, I don't want you to--"

"What?"

Sherlock releases his grip on John's wrists, brings one hand up to cup the side of his head, stroking his thumb along the bottom edge of the blindfold. "We can do this again," he says, "but only if you leave it on. It's spoiled if you've seen it, and it would be quite difficult to find somewhere else as suitable, even for someone of my resources." He drops his hand away. When he speaks again his voice is softer and deliberately neutral, seeming to come from a different angle, as though he's turned his head to the side. "The choice is yours."

John's mind conjures an image of Sherlock in profile, pale eyes averted, hiding his face even when he knows John can't see him. Trying to ask without asking.

John, after all, isn't the only one with trust issues.

He sighs. "Yes, okay." It's the same answer he's been giving all along, really. "Fine."

"Very good, John." There's a warm rumble of approval in Sherlock's voice, overlaying something very like gratitude. "This place has so many possibilities left to explore."

It's the closest Sherlock will come to anything like an admission, and all John can do in response is smile and wait for the guidance of Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock steadies him as he stands, gives him a point of reference as he begins to dress. It's slow and awkward to do by touch alone; when he misses a button on his shirt Sherlock makes an audible sound of derision but takes John's shirt in his hands and corrects the mistake, running his hands down John's chest to smooth out the fabric.

John has scarcely finished shoving both feet into his shoes before there's a rush of air as Sherlock turns. "Ready?" His voice comes from a distance; he's already moving ahead.

"I suppose I am." John sighs and squares his shoulders, resigning himself to chasing blindly after him; takes two steps in the direction of Sherlock's voice.

"Come _on_ , John." A long-fingered hand wraps firmly around his wrist, guiding him forward, drawing him along. "This way."

And John--because he has to; because he's never wanted to do anything else--follows.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=64553872#t64553872) over at sherlockbbc_fic, based on BC's bossy, sarcastic character in The Nightjar (sample available [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zeBFCQ-aBds)).


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